


The Stronger the Light, the Darker the Shadow

by lestradead



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Potterlock, aulock, i wrote this in under six hours wow i'll polish it up sometime later maybe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-04 00:28:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1074881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lestradead/pseuds/lestradead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for fuckyeahteenlock's <a href="http://fuckyeahteenlock.tumblr.com/post/68729679302/fuckyeahteenlocks-potterlock-competition-what">Potterlock competition</a>~</p>
    </blockquote>





	The Stronger the Light, the Darker the Shadow

**Author's Note:**

> Written for fuckyeahteenlock's [Potterlock competition](http://fuckyeahteenlock.tumblr.com/post/68729679302/fuckyeahteenlocks-potterlock-competition-what)~

The halls were empty. It was late - past midnight. John didn't understand what had pushed him to leave the common room way past curfew, but he then realized that he wasn't alone. There was someone behind him; someone rather familiar, with the erratic breathing pattern and unique gait. Shoes tapped against the marble floor, sometimes loud, sometimes soft, but always there.

“I'll beat them,” he whispered, mostly to himself, “I'll beat them, I swear. I'll be better.”

A moment of silence caused tension between the two parties. John, still not facing the other yet knowing who it was, pressed his forehead against the wall, hitting it with his fist in anger.

“You can't do it alone.”

Sherlock Holmes, plagued with asthma and lack of sentiment, had spoken. His voice was normally quiet, but with the almost deafening silence, it seemed loud. The loudest John had ever heard it.

“I'll help you,” Sherlock added, taking a few more steps forward, “but.. you know, if you want to beat them, you're going to have to train.”

Of course. John wasn't dumb. He knew he had to train for their match against Slytherin, but with the information that his team had never won a single game after their Seeker, Victor, graduated, he had given up hope. They had worked together in every match, celebrating when it was won, practicing even harder when lost. They were in sync with each other, movements fluid and sometimes unconventional, but they kept winning and it was all that mattered.

But he was gone, and John was alone.

“Let me help you. Let me be the shadow to your light.”

John let out a quiet exhale, straightening up before turning on his heel to face Sherlock.

“Give me a good reason why I'd let that happen,” he demanded, his fingers curling into his palm, forming a tight fist, “you're _weak._ All you do is hover around and get hit by the ball and hyperventilate and _sweat_. We don't get along. I doubt you even know my last name.”

Swallowing thickly, Sherlock fiddled with a loose fiber on the hem of his shirt, chewing on the inside of his cheek in anxiousness. It was almost a solid minute later when he answered.

“Watson,” he said plainly. “And I know I'm not a good shooter, and I can't really throw around the balls like you do, but.. I adapt. I can learn your moves, learn everyone's moves, and I'll try to do my best to keep up-”

“You _can't_ keep up, you berk. Your respiratory system is absolute shit, and you nearly got yourself killed when you stopped breathing and fell from your broom in the last game. You should feel lucky that there were people down there to keep you afloat or you wouldn't even be here right now.”

“Please, just hear me out!”

Sherlock stood defensively in his spot, fists by his side and his breathing uneven. He looked almost regretful of his actions, but he knew that the only way he could get John Watson to listen was to be louder than he was. Though Sherlock expected John to be a bit shaken up, he still wore his usual poker face, seemingly unfazed by Sherlock's sudden yelling.

“Go on,” John briefed firmly.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment before complying, taking a deep breath before speaking.

“I.. I can learn. I don't want to sound boastful, but I know how to counter certain movements, so if I get the chance to watch one of Slytherin's matches, I might be able to record how they move and what each member's strengths and weaknesses are so we can discuss how we'll be able to use that to our advantage. As for you.. well, you're not exactly what I'd call constant. You're.. unpredictable. You don't have a pattern or anything, you just go with your instinct and I guess that's somehow sort of a good thing for us, but it confuses the team and it's not at the least bit helpful. You need to find a technique, a _constant_ technique, and I need to study it so I can find a way to.. to incorporate my own with it. I'll train. I'll train by your side. I'll help you win. I'll get better.”

Another pause stretched almost infinitely as John evaluated the information given to him, his arms folded across his chest, eyes fixed on Sherlock. That's where John was wrong all along.

Sherlock wasn't useless.

If anything, Sherlock was the brain of the team. John just didn't realize. He was all offense and no defense, lacking strategy, unable to care about the fact that he was committing far too many fouls for an average player. He was just a sword with no shield. He needed a buoy, an anchor, someone to keep him on a moderate pace.

Sherlock. It should be Sherlock. He decided right then and there that it should be Sherlock.

He closed his eyes and smirked, nodding as his mind processed everything, tapping his fingers against his arm.

“Fine.”

Almost immediately, Sherlock looked up from his feet to John, staring at him in disbelief.

“Really?”

“Affirmative,” John spoke, took a step forward, and continued, “better train hard, kiddo.” He walked past Sherlock and gave him a pat on the shoulder, “And fast, or else I'll have to wait for you.”

Sherlock's mouth bust out into a wide grin.

“I know you hate waiting.” He stood in his place for a bit and listened to the continuous beat of John's shoes on the floor, listened as it faded away, and.. all was silent. Sherlock looked back down at his feet and shoved his hands into his pockets, heading towards the opposite direction of John's path.

 _I won't disappoint you,_ he thought to himself, slowly making his way back to the Ravenclaw common room, _that I promise you._

* * *

They watched Slytherin play against Gryffindor the next day. Just him and John, although the rest of the team was invited. They claimed to be busy with homework and books and all that.

John sat back and admired the clouds as Sherlock watched intently, scribbling names and words on a notebook with a pen he had brought from outside the wizarding world. He found pens easier to use and notebooks far more convenient than a quill and a roll of parchment, anyway.

“Erwin, captain of the Slytherin team,” Sherlock mused, “always takes swift right turns, making it easy for him to blow past someone who's blocking him. We should get two players to surround him in our next match, unless he can somehow manage to slip between them-”

“Boring,” John whined at the sky then plucked Sherlock's notebook out of his hands to begin his inspection of what was written on it, but then realized that he could barely read the handwriting.

“Hey-”

“Your penmanship is _awful._ ”

“ _I don't care_. Give it back.”

The young Watson could only tut as he tossed it back to Sherlock, rising from his seat and making his way out of the aisles.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock shouted after him, resisting the urge to throw his pen and notebook at him with full force, “the practice game isn't over yet!”

“I've got better things to do,” John replied, his tone lazy, “let's just meet in the common room later and tell me what you've gathered.”

Sherlock gritted his teeth, his grip on his pen so tight that his knuckles paled. He couldn't leave. Not just yet. The game between Slytherin and Gryffindor hadn't even passed ten minutes and it seemed that the Snitch wouldn't be caught any sooner. It was going to be a long game.

* * *

“Ah, welcome back,” John greeted Sherlock as he entered through the door almost six hours later, “how was the game?”

“Slytherin won by a hundred and twenty points,” reported Sherlock, “they're _beasts._ And our game against them is what? In two weeks? I don't think we even stand a chance.”

“Oi, shut up with all that hopeless bollocks. I do hope you fixed your writing or you'll have to read it out to me.”

Sherlock looked down at his notebook and then back up to John.

“Oops.”

John sighed and put away his book into his bag, leaning against the chair he sat on to warm his feet up near the fireplace.

“Take a seat, read it all out aloud. I would like to know how we can beat them.”

That managed to draw a small smile out of Sherlock. Complying, he sat down and opened his notebook to the first page, the papers creating a faint swishing sound to echo around the room.

“Right.. well, let's see,” he mumbled as he flipped through the pages full of little notes, “yes. Here. Erwin Svits, the captain and one of the Chasers. I've told you about him before you left, so you know about him, right?”

“Yes, yes, go on.”

“Alright. Next is Marco, the guy with the weird hair and the freckles. You saw him earlier and pointed out that he committed a foul. You said it was called.. what was it? Blatching?”

“Blatching, yes. He was speeding towards a player from the Gryffindor team, meaning to crash into him, and since it was just a practice game, there wasn't any referee to call him out.”

“Er.. right. Odd name for a foul. Anyway, moving on. Marco Kirstein, the Seeker. He's got sharp eyes so I understand why they made him the Seeker. That's something we have to take into consideration; he's got almost perfect eyesight and he can sense movements from _behind him_. One strategy that _might_ work against him is this: Whenever you see him just floating in the corner, it means he's found the Snitch, and it's going to be hard especially when our own Seeker is on the other corner. Our Seeker, me, should follow close behind him, but shouldn't make myself too obvious because, as I have mentioned, he can sense all our movements. Someone should cover for me, preferably one Beater, with the other to continue on his job. Marco isn't exactly as fast as he looks, so it's quite possible for me to beat him by a few seconds when we're racing to catch the Snitch. Got that?”

John gazed at Sherlock for a moment before nodding, already have moved to the far edge of his seat, elbows propped up on his knees, chin resting on his palms. “I'm listening.”

“Good. Next off are their Chasers aside from Erwin; Sasha, and Zoe. They're similar in their movements, mostly normal, but here's the catch. Their throwing arms are unbelievably strong, and they're quick. I saw Zoe shoot a Quaffle from more than halfway across the field, and it actually went through the hoop. Sasha can fly from one side of the field to the other in no more than ten seconds. It might be that her broom was altered but that's highly unlikely, so it's more probably her light weight.”

“And our strategy?”

“If our Chasers can't steal the ball from them, then we should train the Keeper a few techniques to block the ball from going into the hoop. It'll be difficult, but I'm sure we can manage. We should also train the Beaters to aim the Bludgers towards them _just_ as they try to shoot. Slytherin's three Chasers are extremely confident in their actions and often think that their throws will go through, so I'm almost a hundred percent sure that we can knock them down with a Bludger while they float in the scoring area. They tend to zone out before shooting it in.”

“Brilliant.”

Sherlock smiled, wide enough to accept the praise but not enough to seem smug. Flipping to the next page, he cleared his throat before speaking again.

“Thank you. Next is.. um, their Keeper, Brian, doesn't really have any special traits, but he can catch a Quaffle just as it's approaching the hoop. Our Chasers have to be able to confuse him into thinking we're going to shoot into one hoop, but pass it to another Chaser to shoot into the hoop farthest from where Brian is staying at. We shouldn't repeat this strategy too often because they'll probably catch on, but it's the best way we can avoid him from catching the Quaffle.”

“Very good.”

“The last of them is their Beaters, Ed and Reiner. They're absolute savages and use their clubs as if they're extensions of their arms. I can practically see the muscles bulging out of their arms. They're strong and can probably knock down our players if we're not careful.”

“Yes, we've played against them before. One of them, Reiner, I think, toppled over two of our Chasers and one Beater with one Bludger. _One. Bludger._ It's almost ridiculous if you think about it.”

“Very. There's no way we can beat these guys. Their balance on their brooms is just incredible. I saw one of the Gryffindor Beaters aim a Bludger at Ed and he just bent over backwards so it wouldn't hit him. It almost touched his nose but still, it was an impressive move. So, if we can't beat them, avoid them completely. Tell our Beaters to strike the Bludger when it's coming towards them on its own, not when initially hit by Ed or Reiner. Their strikes are unavoidable, so we need to tell everyone to keep a good eye on them. We can make up some sort of signal for our Keeper to make when one of them is about to strike.”

“Good plan.”

John paused for a moment, contemplating their strategies, staring at the fire that crackled on endlessly behind the metal grate, the bright light of it straining his eyes against the dark surroundings of the common room.

“You're our Seeker, am I correct?” John asked Sherlock, giving him a small point of his index finger.

"Yes.”

"Then go to bed. We start training tomorrow.”

Sherlock stood up from his seat and nodded in confirmation.

“Goodnight, Captain. I will see you tomorrow.”

* * *

Training in the morning was rather uneventful. Most of the players were either out of their element or overactive, both effects of sleep deprivation, and it was hard to work with. But they trekked on, pushing themselves to their limits, absolutely sick and tired of always losing to Slytherin.

Sherlock was quite well rested, to say the least. John was the opposite.

 _Maybe it's a bad idea to practice at four in the morning,_ Sherlock thought to himself as he searched through the fog for the Golden Snitch.

* * *

Over the next few days, the Ravenclaw Quidditch Team had been training almost endlessly, putting off their homework for a couple of hours or even more just to train. It was highly out of character for them, given that they're often labeled to value knowledge over all else, but it was a matter of desperation for victory and they weren't going to give up that easily.

Sherlock had been improving.

 _Four days into training,_ John wrote in his mental notes, watching as Sherlock zoomed past Hunter, one of their Beaters, to reach for a little glinting sphere, _Sherlock is getting better. He's got potential. Someone just needs to draw it out._

* * *

Two weeks and it was finally the actual battle. Slytherin versus Ravenclaw. Most people were doubtful of the Ravenclaw team's strength, but some had put a little bit of hope and support for them, and that was enough for John.

Even if they didn't win, it was still worth a shot.

“Captains, shake hands!” shouted the commentator from the highest point in the stands.

The two teams formed a line on the ground, and the captains, John and Erwin, stepped forward.

“Good luck, mate,” Erwin said, almost laughing, almost teasing the Ravenclaw team for their unbroken record of losses. John could probably taste the hostility from miles away.

“You too,” John murmured, giving him a death glare for a split second before straddling his broom, his heartbeat racing as he waited for the whistle that marked the start of the game.

Three.

Two.

One.

Go.

* * *

One hour into the game and it was looking rather bad. The score was at 50 – 30, with 50 being Slytherin's points. John was getting angry. He couldn't imagine losing after all their training, after everything they've done, after everything they've been through. No. He couldn't accept it. He couldn't accept another loss. Not anymore.

* * *

Three hours and forty-six minutes after, and the score rose to 110 – 110. It was tied, and both Seekers have spotted the Golden Snitch. It was now or never for the Ravenclaw team.

* * *

Five hours. Someone caught the Golden Snitch. Both teams were still tied at 140 – 140.

The players have flown so high into the fog that no one could make out who caught it.

 _Please be Sherlock_ , John thought to himself as he looked hopefully at the sky, _please._

A dramatic pause reverberated around the field, then Marco flew down from the fog. John could hear Erwin's huff of laughter.

“I knew you would catch it, Marco,” the blond shouted. Marco stopped mid-air and gave him a _look,_ as if to oppose what he had just said.

“I.. I didn't catch it,” Marco retorted, holding his hands up to show that what he was saying was true, “I lost sight of it in the fog, and.. he got it. That guy got it.”

A collective gasp came from the audience. Even the commentator looked shocked.

John could only stay in place and hope that Sherlock would come down soon.

Seconds ticked by. One, two, three, four, five, six, sev-

Sherlock emerged from the fog, a bit more messy-looking than usual, but held in his fist the Golden Snitch, its wings splaying out from either side of his hand.

* * *

 

Slytherin – Ravenclaw

140 – 290

 

* * *

 

They had done it.

They had finally won.

Sherlock was seated on top of the shoulders of the Ravenclaw team's two beaters, for it was he who shattered the illusion that Ravenclaw was weak, that they always lose at sports, that they do nothing but read and study and learn and solve puzzles.

They had done it.

“Congratulations,” said a beaten Erwin, shaking hands with John once more.

“Thanks, Svits.”

“I look forward to playing with you guys again,” Erwin continued, dabbing at his sweat-soaked forehead with a towel, “it's a good challenge.”

“You played well today, but I suppose it just wasn't enough. I'll see you at the next round, Svits,” John said, gave a small smile, turned on his heel, and walked away.

* * *

That night, the Ravenclaw Quidditch Team celebrated for the first time in three years.

Over all the noise and crowding, Sherlock and John had managed to sneak out into the boy's dormitories, where no one was currently then staying at. It was empty. Calm. Peaceful. Perfect.

“Good game,” John told Sherlock, giving him a pat on the back that might have been a bit too hard.

“Thanks,” Sherlock said with a nod, almost laughing, “you did well, Captain.”

“As cliché as it sounds, we couldn't have done it without you. This is the first time you've thought up a strategy for us and you've been on this team for two years. Why come to me just now?”

Sherlock sighed and sat on the edge of his bed, forming a steeple with his fingers to rest his chin on.

“I was afraid you'd get mad. And you did, yes, but I, too, was fed up of seeing us lose.”

A small noise of understanding slipped past John's throat as he took the spot beside Sherlock, leaning his hands on the mattress behind him to lean against as he looked up at the ceiling.

“Say, would you fancy a drink some time?” John asked Sherlock, almost absentmindedly.

Confused, Sherlock turned his head to look at John, who was still looking at the ceiling.

“Pardon?”

“A drink. Butterbeer, maybe, at Hogsmeade. In celebration for today, of course. I owe you one.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said with a smirk, but somehow a bit disappointed, “right. Yes. Okay.”

Pause.

"Well,” said John as he got up on his feet, “I'm going back downstairs. You can come if you want.”

“No, no, I'm fine. I've got.. homework to do.”

John looked at him for a moment, his features softening at Sherlock. John knew that look, or form of stature. He was.. disappointed. Rejected.

“Er, Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“I like you.”

That was the last thing John said before heading back to the common room, leaving a wide-eyed, red-cheeked Sherlock Holmes seated on his bed for the rest of the night.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I know there are probably some mistakes, so I'm sorry about that.


End file.
